Pat Robertson, A Poem


I used to see the world in Kaleidoscope colors,

When I was little the empty pages of my mind could go to places my feet only dreamed of touching,

I didn’t know that one day those things would never be worth discussing,

The butterfly, the fallen brook, these were my estuary,

My chapel was the endless sky up towards serenity,

I needed no steeple, no words of a broken people,

Because to me the world was unclaimed, untouched,

a manifestation of the whole that we were meant to be.

I read by the Jules Verne sea, beneath the golden summer light,

Imagining what my own adventures might someday entail,

Remaining for just a little while the unmolded clay,

No God or man could steal away the nights or claim my day,

Because I was happy.

But then my father taught me to hate, Like his father and his father before him,

Colors were no longer the kaleidoscope of my dreams,

Only instruments ripping at the seams of fear and isolation,

Black was no longer the color of the night’s sensation,

It was the color of a people cursed with the mark of Caine,

It was the color of dark hearts and demented minds,

It was the color of death…not as the great equalizer,

Not as our connection to fellow man or earth beneath the deep azure of space,

But the suffering of the fates from an ego-maniac cloud baby,

Never did I stop to think that the hell of the bible lacked imagination,

That a lake of fire was a joke to a Holocaust survivor who once said beyond the world of conviction, “If God exists he will have to beg for my forgiveness”.

Never did I stop to think that Satan probably wasn’t called “Angel of Light” because he beamed like a glo-stick,

And if he was what does that make a God who calls beauty an ultimate virtue, and then creates ugly people?

O Hell you’ve come and drawn on my mind, because this is the place where gnashing of teeth is the least of it,

Some part of me innately knows this, but still I rebel in the hive of my superstition,

I mean for Christ’s sake, I have a show called the 700 club on Wednesday night television,

Wednesday as in hump day, as in the humping I never do,

Seven as in a Chinese lucky cat,

As in days of the week, notes on a scale, colors of the rainbow, seas and continents,

I know it’s got really vile content,

But I wish you could remember me before I was such a prick,

It seems like such a long time coming now, but unlike Lady Gaga I wasn’t born this way,

Like old school film, prejudice requires development (in a really dark room with ritualized drowning,)

Eyes of mine, you were not my apertures, Because I never wanted the truth.

Doubting, you are a part of the human spirit, but I could never handle you.

I wanted an insurance policy on life,

a world beneath and beyond the blue, Guaranteed.

Beneath so much hate I wrapped myself in the fabric of my father’s promises,

Even though I had seen his own cone of dreams melt in the sun,

You see, while my father Absalom Robertson held political office,

In the Senate and U.S. House of Representatives.

A pissed off Lyndon B. Johnson,

Punished him for snubbing his wife,

And showing more resistance amid the South’s Civil Rights strife,

Than even the most reticent Bryd democrats. I don’t know why they call them that,

Fiscally liberal and socially conservative,

Perhaps the “Y” in place of “I” Denotes an animal who once dreamed of flight but never quite got off the ground,

Perhaps a really fat duck with a binge eating disorder,

Spellbound by taste and stuck in time,

God of order and all things hetero-sexual, Give me one more rhyme.

I wish I had the courage of heathens who face the day completely unsure of what may come,

I wish I knew the sum potential of my own mortality,

But the bravery built on nothing but conscience and no knowledge of time’s eternity,

Is not something I possess. Failure for other people is lemon zest, but I’m like a fucking citrus hurricane,

I’ve been dying to make someone feel the pain,

(Of rejection.)

Like Hitler I had to let people know I was serious,

Art school, New York Bar Exam,

It’s all the same shit, Different day,

Hey, hey, hey!

God is mysterious,

Except when I’m talking a bright blue ribbon of everything sanctimonious.

I think I hold an omnipresent census on morality,

Not realizing I’ve created my own captivity,

I preach about God’s judgment with callous Certainty,

But really I just want to be worthy of someone, in a way I’ve never been outside the prayer room,

All the lenses of my life could never zoom or focus on a meaningful existence,

Like a terminal anorexic I’ve found no way to level the weight of my insignificance,

So I’ll continue to rage with a vengeance, bitching about all those evil queers and feminists, I’ll rail on about instilling family values and the “Nuclear Family”,

Not realizing the hilarious insinuation of an idea meant to blow up in reality,

It’s amazing how dignified stupid can feel with God on your side,

I was feeling a little insecure the night before,

But then I woke up and remembered I’m a man,

I’m not gonna lie. It feels good to be a guy.

So I’ll tighten my misogyny around my tie,

And color my cheeks with God’s fury where cocaine could have been.

I’ll tell myself everything is alright because it has to be,

Because without heaven and hell I am just a man getting older,

Clinging to my beliefs like the fringes of death cling to me,

Deep down, I only wish I knew the nature of eternity.



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